I only did the kind of things I orta, sorta.
To you I was as faithful as c'n be—fer me.
Them stories 'bout the way I lost my bloomers—
Rumors! A lot of tempest in a pot o' tea!

"Joe."

"Sam," the other boy answered as he clasped his friend's hand. Sam couldn't help noticing the scratches and calluses that marked Joe's skin.

"Good to have you back. Been working hard?"

Joe nodded and signaled for Sam to sit beside him. As usual, Joe had brought his guitar with him, but Sam was surprised that he'd also spread a blanket on the ground. Joe's toes were curled in the spring grass.

"It's good to be back," he sighed.

"Figgins is gonna freak."

"No, he won't. Won't look good if he suspends me 'cause I was building houses for Habitat for Humanity."

"I guess. It's not like you slapped Finn or anything."

"Huh?" Joe blinked. "Yeah. Well. My biggest problems will be catching up in class, learning Regionals choreography, and fixing up Mark, John, and Esther."

Sam stared at his classmate for a couple seconds, then asked who the hell Mark, John, and Esther were. Threesomes didn't seem like they should be in Joe Hart's vocabulary, despite that song they'd sung together . . .

"You know, Mark, John, and Esther," Joe said, pulling forward three of his dreads. "I can't get the sawdust out of them."

"Oh."

It was strange having Joe heading up the God Squad. Sam had gotten used to how Quinn and Mercedes ran it—with iron fists. Now, whenever he attended, he found himself wedged between the wacko Kitty Wilde and a bible-junkie with a thing for quoting his own chest. Sometimes, Sam wondered how Joe got so good at reading upside down.

"Is this everyone?" Sam asked, doubting the wisdom of summoning the new God Squad. "Where's Mercedes?"

"Called her this morning—though really, you could've done that."

Sam winced in acknowledgement. He'd never quite understood how he and Mercedes had gone wrong. Things had just petered off after she moved away. Anyway, it was . . . awkward . . . calling her up. Asking her for help. Revealing just how messed up his life had become since she'd graduated. He really didn't want Mercedes to see that. Still, she was good with advice. When they'd been together, she'd helped him keep his feet on the ground and told him off when he needed it. He missed that about her.

"So . . . is she coming?" Sam persisted.

"Dude, you texted me at one in the morning. Only God can work miracles." Joe fiddled with his guitar, which seemed to have acquired a new, pasted-on quotation since Sam had last seen it. "A year ago, I didn't even have a cell. Lucky Finn started scheduling all those late-night choir practices, or I wouldn't have one now."

Sam sighed and slipped his bag off his shoulders. Noticing that his shoe-lace had come loose, he bent forward to retie it. Next, he checked his phone for messages. Finally, he shifted his bag around several times, opened it, fiddled with the papers inside, and closed it again. Anything to keep from looking Joe in the eye.

Joe saw too much, even if he said very little.

"Mercedes is busy," the other boy broke in. "She's taking Mike to meet her grandparents today."

Sam's hands froze. Before he could stop himself, he wondered if the senior Joneses would greet Mike Chang as warmly as they'd greeted him. But that was over now, and Sam was with Brittany. He loved her, and he shouldn't care that Mercedes had moved on, too. But he did—he cared that she'd moved on to Los Angeles, and that she'd moved on to Mike. Just like he cared that Brittany was moving on, too.

Somehow, Sam was always getting left behind.

Come to think of it, he hadn't even seen Lady Tubbington since the night before . . . He shook his head. The she-devil was probably lurking under his bed, waiting to ambush his ankles as soon as he got home. Good thing Blaine hadn't convinced him to give up on socks altogether. He needed the extra layer of protection.

When Sam sighed again, Joe tilted his head and looked at him with that strange, sideways stare. Before Joe could make another uncomfortable observation, Sam interrupted:

"Who's coming, then, Joe? 'Cause I may need an army to get me through this."

"Well, there's me, and of course there's Mark, John, and Esther. If you ask nicely, I'm sure Judith would be glad to help out."

Sam frowned. He didn't even think that there were books of Esther or Judith in the Bible. He'd certainly never heard of any girl-books before.

"And then, of course," Joe continued, "there's—"

"Well, if it isn't our own greasy little guppy," a voice interrupted. Sam looked up to find a blonde silhouette leaning over them.

"—Kitty," Joe finished. She was hardly recognizable in her Sunday clothes, grasping a cardboard tray of take-out coffee.

"Move over, fish-lips. I didn't bring that blanket just so I could sit on the grass. And I hope you like your coffee black, because that's what you're getting."

"What are you doing here?" Sam sputtered, half-rising. Although he knew she was part of the Squad, he hadn't imagined Kitty would make an appearance. Not for him.

"Sitting in the cold and saving your sorry ass from some sorry-ass ethical dilemma, I gather."

"That's now how I put it, Kitty," Joe murmured as Kitty shoved a cardboard cup into Sam's hand.

"Yeah, well, I don't sugar-coat things. What's your problem-of-the-day? Because, seriously, you've got too many to tackle in just one go-round."

"That's not nice," Joe said.

"I'm not nice," Kitty smiled. "But I'm Christian, and today I'm martyring myself for you. So be grateful, sit down, and start talking."

Sam sank onto the ground, but it was several minutes before he could bring himself to broach the subject of Blaine. When he did, he told Kitty that he wanted to ask Joe a few questions first—since he'd been in the New Directions longer. Kitty nodded, but studied both boys through narrowed eyes.

"What do you think of Kurt and Blaine together, in one word?"

"Upsetting." Joe grimaced, then added: "Distasteful."

"That's two words, genius," Kitty interjected.

"Aw, Joe, you're not going homophobic on me, are you? I thought you were better than that!" Sam snapped, bristling at his classmate's unexpectedly negative reaction.

"That's not fair, dude. You asked what I thought." Joe pushed 'John' and 'Esther' behind his ear. "Look, I decided way back when we were doing those singing Valentines that love is love. I thought hard about that, and I decided to go against what my parents and my church teach me. I haven't changed my mind, but . . ."

He trailed off and stared into the distance. Sam never got used to this Joe-Hart quirk: It looked like the other boy had pulled shutters over his eyes while he ran complex computations in his head, reviewing years of teachings and months of actual life experience as he tried to force an invisible puzzle to fit together.

"But?" Kitty prompted. Sam glared at her.

"But . . . " Joe continued, eyes refocusing. "I said 'love is love.' And I know I didn't spend much time with Kurt before he graduated, but . . . well, with him and Blaine, where's the love?"

Kitty snickered, then rolled her eyes as Joe began to unbutton his shirt.

"Here, listen," Joe offered. "'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.'"

"1 Corinthians 13," Kitty finished. "He's been repeating that passage since we were ten. I'm sure he's got it memorized by now—there was no need for him to take his shirt off. Not that we minded, right, Sam?"

"Right . . ." Sam muttered.

Joe fastened his shirt back up and shrugged. "Let's just say I have a flair for the dramatic," he replied. Kitty snorted.

Sam frowned. "Is that your answer? 'Where's the love?' and a bible verse?"

"This is the God Squad, Sam."

"I know you're not much into trifling matters like English, critical thinking, and hair-washing, fish-face," Kitty added. "But maybe you should at least try to draw your own conclusions here. We can't do all the work for you, you know."

With those words, Kitty crossed her arms and leaned against the tree-trunk. Silence stretched between the three Squad members as Sam sipped his coffee and considered what Joe had said.

Love is patient. Blaine was trying to strong-arm Kurt into a relationship before Kurt was ready. It does not envy . . . it is not self-seeking. Certainly, Blaine's desire to marry his ex-boyfriend had increased when he had found out about Adam. Wasn't that envy? It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Strike and strike. It does not boast. Sam could clearly remember Blaine commenting that no one would ever love Kurt as much as he did. Wasn't that boasting? Yes, Sam thought, and it was a lie, too. Sam loved Kurt, so did Kurt's family—and so did that British guy with the handkerchief. Sam's heart started to pound.

Love always protects . . .

Always trusts . . .

Always hopes . . .

Always perseveres . . .

Love never fails.

If that was what love was, then what was Blaine feeling? What was he doing? Why did he cheat so quickly after Kurt moved? Why had he led Tina on? Why was he chasing after his best friend while still proclaiming his love for his ex? Why was Blaine always bragging about how much he loved Kurt, but never showing it through kindness or fidelity? Why did he shame Kurt in the choir room and make him . . . be less?

For that matter, why didn't he trust Kurt to make the right choice for himself?

"Fuck!"

Sam felt two pairs of icy-blue eyes turn on him.

"Fuck!" he repeated, crumpling the empty cup in his hand. "Guys, I'm, like . . . totally fucked."

"That's obvious just from looking at you, grease-monkey." Kitty rolled her eyes. "So . . . why don't you stop wasting our time and start telling us what your actual problem is? Because somehow I doubt you called the God Squad in just to ask our opinion of 'The Tragic Love-Affair of the Lima-Latte-Loser and Brilliantine-in-a-Bowtie.'"

Kurt tried not to straighten his hands out too much; the scratches from the rose-thorns, though not deep, did hurt, and if he wasn't careful, he'd re-open them. Really, he should have been more careful. He should have known better.

Actually, he should have known better about a lot of things. He should have known better about Blaine. He should have known from the beginning, when he'd always felt like second best. When he had felt like he had to tamp himself down, hold himself back, and let Blaine have the spotlight. When he had to put out or risk losing the only man who would ever love him—to Sebastian Fucking Smythe.

Poor Kurt. Poor, high-pitched, pale, soft, gay-faced, flamboyant, girly Kurt Hummel with his baby-penguin body and his gas-pain faces.

Poor Lady Hummel.

God, how he hated that nickname—most of the time. Sometimes, he appreciated the irony that the people who were mocking him had raised him to the aristocracy. Lady Hummel of Hummel Hall. In that guise, Kurt was several steps above Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was certainly above the Smythes and the Andersons of Lima, Ohio.

Kurt looked at his father, who was snoring on the couch, and chuckled. Actually, Kurt Hummel, son of Congressman Hummel, now held the highest social position of the three. If Kurt actually cared, he might get some pleasure out of that little reversal. The 'faggy' son of a mechanic had risen to become part of the political elite. Now that his father was better, Kurt could look forward to visiting Washington, D.C. during his breaks. Cheap Chinatown buses made the trip manageable. It would certainly be easier than these frequent visits to Lima had been.

And sometimes, Kurt thought, it's best not to come back.

Kurt headed towards his room. As long as Burt was napping, Kurt could have some alone-time. He could even try to get in touch with Adam. Things with Blaine—and with everyone other than Mercedes and Mike, he suspected—would have been easier if Adam had been able to come to Lima with him. But Adam was busy building his resume and polishing his senior showcase. That meant that he'd had to dedicate their spring break to rehearsals.

Kurt could hardly wait to see what the sweet Adam Crawford was doing with the role of Iachimo in Cymbeline. Before Kurt had departed, they'd spent hours running lines together. As far as Kurt could tell, Adam was going to be brilliant.

Watching the goofy young man from Essex transform into a Standard-American-speaking villain had even made Kurt question his choice to study musical theatre instead of classical acting. Kurt remembered how he'd leaned further and further over the kitchen table while Adam delivered Iachimo's most disturbing speech: the one when he examines the sleeping Imogen, memorizing the moles on her naked body in order to convince her husband she'd been unfaithful. Then, in the middle of a line, Adam had stopped, held out a plate of scones, and asked whether Kurt was hungry—since he certainly seemed to be drooling.

"I-I had no idea that you could be so wicked," Kurt had said.

Adam had merely winked as he poured them fresh cups of tea.

Now, Kurt's beau was in the midst of ten-out-of-twelves and technical rehearsals. It was difficult for them to connect, but between emails and text messages, they were managing to keep each other up-to-date. Kurt had even gotten Adam on the phone long enough to tell him about Burt's prognosis, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to mention Blaine's strange behavior.

Some things were just too messed up to share. The farther away Kurt got from his relationship with Blaine, the clearer it became that it had been unbalanced. Admitting that, even to—no, especially to—someone he was falling for made his stomach squirm. Adam was older, more experienced. What would he think when he learned that Kurt's one and only prior relationship, the one that he'd had such trouble getting over, had been so very one-sided?

Maybe Adam would think less of him. Maybe he'd think him weak, like everyone else seemed to. Maybe the illusion that Adam was falling in love with him (because it had to be an illusion, right? No one fell in love with Kurt Hummel for Kurt Hummel) would shatter into so many tiny shards.

"Ouch!"

Pain brought Kurt back to the present. He was in his room, seated at his desk, with his laptop open to that photograph of him and Adam in Central Park. He'd been wringing his hands again.

One more bad habit to break.

Kurt was in the middle of his letter to Adam when the first instant message arrived:

VampyreDiva: "How could you DO this to him?"

Tina.

Before he had a chance to respond, a second message popped up:

BroadwayBnd21: "Kurt, thank G-d you've signed on. I need advice for my audition song and Dad and Daddy are *no help at all.*"

BroadwayBnd21: "Btw, you have *got* to see Nice Work if You Can Get It. If you have time outside rehearsals, I mean. I know how hard you are working just to get caught up . . ."

VampyreDiva: "I would have killed for yellow roses."

BroadwayBnd21: "But then, NYADA is *not* the sort of school that most people can sail through."

Kurt wanted to scream. Instead, he took a deep breath and started typing.

PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva: "You can have them, then."

PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21: "This isn't the best time, Rachel."

VampyreDiva: "You ruined them! You have no IDEA how upset Blaine is, Kurt."

BroadwayBnd21: "What? Kurt! You promised we were in this together!"

VampyreDiva: "He trusted you!

BroadwayBnd21: "I trusted you!"

The messages came so fast that Kurt hardly had time to think. He was in the middle of telling Rachel that this was not the moment to guilt-trip him about audition songs when he felt a chill go up his spine.

How did Tina know about the roses? How did she know that he'd destroyed them?

Was Tina . . . watching him? Or was it—

No. It couldn't be Blaine. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't spy on Kurt's house.

Would he?

PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva: "How do you know about the roses? Have you been watching me?"

BroadwayBnd21: "Kurt . . . are you ignoring me?"

PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21: "No, but I told you this isn't the best time, Rachel."

Kurt's eyes flicked to the other chat window. Tina was typing. Back to Rachel.

PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21: "Things are bad here. Blaine's acting crazy, and that's putting it mildly. Plus, he seems to have gotten the idea that I'm floundering at NYADA. Why would he think that, Rachel? Are you sending him progress reports?"

VampyreDiva: "You weren't exactly subtle. Why can't you accept an apology? Blaine's a mess right now."

PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva: "So you were watching me!"

VampyreDiva: "No, of course not. He told me what you did. He's my friend."

BroadwayBnd21: "Of course I've talked to Blaine about you. He's my friend, too, you know."

Suddenly and (he told himself) irrationally angry, Kurt pushed his chair back from the desk, jumped up, and started to pace. Weren't Tina and Rachel his friends first? Words of wisdom rose up in Kurt's memory: This is why you shouldn't go backwards. This is why you can't stay friends with an ex. What's done is done, and if a relationship ends, it was probably for a good reason.

He should have taken Brody's advice.

Kurt blinked. He'd never even liked Brody, but his unwelcome roomie had been right about one thing. Whenever Kurt gave a little—whether it was agreeing to be friends or easing his sexual frustration the "safest" way possible at Mr. Schue's wedding—he'd dug himself in deeper. Every time he tried to salvage some scrap of what he'd had with Blaine, his ex became more possessive and insistent. And Tina and Rachel were feeding the monster. He had to put an end to that now.

Rachel, he figured, would be easier to crack.

PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21: "Look, this is important. I can't stop you from talking to Blaine, but I need you to stop talking to him about me. There's a reason I unfriended him. The more he knows about what I'm doing in New York, the stranger he acts. I need you to help me here. I need you to keep my private life private. Don't interfere."

BroadwayBnd21: "Like you did with that nude scene? Kurt, do you have any idea how many awards that film is up for now? It's going to *festivals.* That should have been my role, but you convinced me I'd be selling out if I did that scene."

BroadwayBnd21: "Which, by the way, they *cut.*"

PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21: "I'm sorry. But as much as losing that role sucks, it sucks worse that I'm being stalked in my own home."

BroadwayBnd21: "WHAT?!"

Then, suddenly, Tina was back:

VampyreDiva: "Blaine's worried about you, OK? He's looking out for you. You have to admit you've been acting strange lately. How could you throw everything away like this?"

Kurt frowned. Something sounded a bit off about Tina. It was almost like another voice was speaking through her. Or using her computer.

PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva: "Is Blaine there with you? Right now? Standing over your shoulder?"

After a long pause, Tina answered in the negative. He was at her house, but so upset that he was lying down in her room.

VampyreDiva: "You're breaking his heart. You should see him. Just come by, see him, talk to him."

PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva: "No."

VampyreDiva: "Kurt, don't be so unreasonable."

This time, Kurt let out a little scream of disgust.

PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva: "You sound exactly like Blaine. Did you know that? Maybe you are a perfect pair."

VampyreDiva: "He's giving you another chance. Just come over."

PorcelainStar: "No. N. O. A simple word, Tina. Why don't you and Blaine look it up in the dictionary? Goodbye."

Kurt closed the chat window and blocked "VampyreDiva." Then, he turned back to his email to Adam. Unfortunately, he wasn't in the mood to write anymore. All the happy memories of their time together had been wiped away, and it seemed like forever before he'd be back in the city to make new ones.

The computer beeped again.

BroadwayBnd21: "I'm sorry, Kurt, I didn't know Blaine was doing that."

PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21: "He is. He's using everything you say and turning it around to make me look bad."

BroadwayBnd21: "OK, I won't say any more about you, even if he asks. I don't want to lose my best gay. Deal?"

Kurt cringed at the nickname, but decided that he was willing to lose the battle as long as he won the war.

PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21: "Deal. Gotta go now. I have to finish my email to Adam. I'm sorry I can't help with the audition right now."

BroadwayBnd21: "It's no big. My dads just promised to take me to Colony. I'm going to dig through every song in their collection. I can look for one for your audition, too, if you like."

PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21: "Thanks, Rachel. That's generous of you."

Within moments, Rachel had signed off, no doubt high on the prospect of hours of exploring acres of sheet music (and posters, and records, and so forth). Kurt wished that he could be there. Anywhere. Away from here. But he needed to be with his family, and Lima was still home.

Kurt leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He reminded himself of his revelation the other day—that Blaine clung to him and pushed him down because he knew that Kurt had more talent. There was no guarantee that Blaine would actually follow him to New York. There was no way that Kurt could be forced into marriage like some piece of chattel. He was—more or less—safe.

He just had to get through three . . . more . . . days.

Three. By Thursday he'd be back in New York trying to pick the perfect outfit for the opening of Cymbeline. He'd be cheering for his real boyfriend—the one who saw the star inside Kurt without trying to extinguish it.

It wasn't that long. So why did it feel like forever?

The morning of flowers and chocolate followed by the afternoon of instant messages had taken their toll. No longer able to focus on his email to Adam, Kurt wrapped it up as efficiently as he could and signed it with love.

For a moment, he hovered the cursor over "send." Then, he added a postscript:

When you go home, do you ever feel like you need to change everything about you—to turn back into the person you were before—just to fit in, just so that you won't upset everyone else?

Before he could reconsider, Kurt hit send. Tired beyond words, he dimmed the lights, climbed into bed, and pulled the cover over his head. Before long, Kurt felt the corner of his mattress sink as something heavy jumped onto the bed. A moment later, a wet nose nuzzled under his blanket. Before long, an enormous cat had burrowed in beside him and started purring blissfully.

"Why hello, my lady," Kurt murmured, cautiously scratching the oversized tabby behind the ear. "It's an honor to meet you at last."

When Kurt's new companion—who had curled up next to his stomach—nicked him with her blissful kneeding, Kurt did wince. He did not, however, evict Sam's "she-devil" from his bed. Now he knew that his dream of the night before had been reality. Sam might not like it, but the cat had made her choice.

From now on, it would be Lady Hummel and Lady Tubbington against the world.

DISCLAIMER: Glee, its universe, and its characters do not belong to me.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is inspired by the crack klaine proposals meme and the title of the final episode of the season. Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

OH, AND: This is my second foray into the Glee fandom. I hope you enjoy it.